Losing It
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: His madness comes and goes; stealing memories and leaving Russia dazed and confused. Where was he? What had he done? Luckily, he was in safe hands. Canada had never lied to him before. One shot.


_Summary: His madness comes and goes; stealing memories and leaving Russia dazed and confused. Where was he? What had he done? Luckily, he was in safe hands. Canada had never lied to him before. One shot._

_This was originally an alternate memory for Russia in Tired of Waiting, but I thought that it was a little too dark for that piece. I still liked it though, so here it is._

**Losing It**

Russia raised the length of battered iron over his head again before bringing it down with a slick crack. He felt the skull shatter beneath the blow and watched in morbid fascination as pieces of white, grey, and red splattered across the floor in wonderful patterns.

It was so beautiful.

Russia dropped the faucet pipe and it clattered into a pool of blood. He nudged one of the many bodies with the toe of his boot and rolled the corpse over. The face was unrecognizable.

Good.

He smeared the bits of brains still clinging to his boots against the bloodied coat in disgust before kicking the man over again and turning to leave. He found the exit blocked by another nation.

Canada was leaning against the doorframe with a sort of nonchalant grace. His arms were crossed over his chest but he did not seem upset besides the slight frown and furrowed eyebrows. He seemed more worried than upset and nodded to Russia in greeting. Russia found himself waving back despite the situation. It felt like a habit. Had this happened before?

"Ivan."

"Matvey."

Canada swept his gaze over the carnage and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"What happened?"

"I hurt them," Russia sneered.

"I can see that. Why?"

"It is because he needed to be punished. All of them needed to be punished."

"Yes, but why?"

Russia paused and cocked his head to the side in confusion. Why had he needed to be punished? He could not remember…

Canada focused his worried gaze on him and looked him over before sighing and raking his fingers through his blonde curls. He stepped over the corpses and across the decrepit room to stand in front of him. He met his glare with a calm, gentle stare and Russia was surprised to see the softness in his gaze. There was no judgement reflected there.

Canada held out one of his hands.

"May I?" He waited until Russia gave him permission before touching him. He led Russia out past the bodies and into the basement corridor by his hand. The flickering lights of the basement were eerie in the aftermath of the massacre.

Whose massacre?

Oh, right.

Canada ushered him into a washroom as if he were a small child and switched on the lights. Russia was assaulted by his bloodied reflection in the cracked mirror; his hair was painted red and his eyes were wide and staring. He wore a crooked little smile on his face.

Why was he smiling?

Why the hell was he smiling?

Russia twisted sharply to vomit in the corner. Where was he? What was he doing here? The smell of vomit only made his stomach heave again and again until there was nothing left. Canada smoothed his back in soothing circles and whispered something so softly that Russia could not hear it over the sound of sobbing. Who was crying?

Russia watched tears splash against the floor. Oh... He was crying.

Canada scooped him up without effort, which was a surprise, and sat him on the edge of the counter. When had he lost so much weight? Canada turned the rusting tap of the sink and waited. The ancient plumbing shuddered and rattled before spitting russet water, but Canada was patient, and soon the water was clear. He pulled his sweater over his head in a shock of static and doused the fabric until soaked through.

He used his sweater to wipe the still wet blood from Russia's face in sweeping brushes. He was gentle and the freezing water was a welcome reprieve against his flushed cheeks.

Russia was confused. Why was he here? What was happening to him? What had he done? He wound his fingers into his scarf and was alarmed to feel clotting blood between the stitches.

Canada clucked his tongue with a shake of his head and started blotting the blood on the scarf.

"What happened?" Canada asked again, his focus trained on the knit as he plucked his fingers over the stitches. Russia felt as if the world were falling out from under him. Why could he not remember?

"I… I do not know. Where am I?"

Canada hummed against the shell of his ear.

"It's okay. You're in safe hands."

Russia felt the panic that had been clawing up his throat recede and wrapped his arms around the other nation. Canada had never lied to him before, had he?

"I am... How you say... Losing it. I am so lost." Russia mumbled, disoriented, and clutched Canada as a drowning man would grasp at straw. Canada paused for a moment before returning the embrace and cradling Russia against his chest. His worried frown deepened and his gentle gaze softened further in sadness.

"I know," Canada whispered, "but I've found you."

_**Author's Notes:**_

_A little disjointed, I know, but he is falling into madness and probably dealing with a multiple personality disorder. It is not uncommon for one personality to have no knowledge or recollection of the other(s). He is forgetting even the most recent events, he is confused and constantly questioning himself, and he seems lost. I pity the poor dear…_

_I enjoy writing the darker side of fiction. Not to say that I like unhappy endings; I just like unhappy beginnings. Does that make any sense? _

_Mostly, I am posting this because I realize that I have not submitted any writing for a little while and this has been littering my document folder. I actually have a legitimate excuse for my disappearance, and a horrendously depressing one at that, but I will further explain in my next post. Hopefully, that will be a chapter of __Tired of Waiting__ for those who are… Well, tired of waiting. I really should have thought that title through a bit more… _

_Please remember to review._


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